Michael Jecks: The Prophecy of Death

‘What is the matter with them?’ Hal demanded as he took the candle, shivering slightly in the middle-night chill.

Mark went down the ladder, muttering, ‘Goddamned hounds. They’re no good to man or beast. If they were warning us of invasion or the end of the world, that would be one thing, but these monsters only ever bark at the moon. They were disturbed by a cat or something, I daresay. Blasted creatures.’

It was a common enough occurrence. The cellarer had a cat, a promiscuous and undiscriminating little draggle-tail, who had just borne another litter. Several times in recent weeks the mewling things had irritated the hounds beyond restraint, and one kitten had fallen in among the pack. It didn’t live long. Perhaps this was another of the little brutes, sitting up on a ledge and taunting the pack below again. However, it could be something else. They had to check.

The Queen’s pack had arrived unexpected and unannounced about a month ago, as she passed by on her way to the coast. The Prior had remained urbanely calm about it while she was there, but all knew how problematic looking after them was going to be. She left them no fewterer to look after them, and as for money … well, all knew that her own finances had been curtailed since the outset of war with her brother, the King of France, last year. Since then, it was said, the King and his main advisers did not trust her, and they wouldn’t let her have the income from her lands. So, in effect, she had nothing.

That was probably why the French wench had deposited her beasts on the priory, Mark told himself grimly.

They had been housed in the old tithe barn. It was a great building over at the farther side of the priory grounds, unused for some months since the new barn was completed. In time, they had planned to pull down the old building and reuse the stones and timbers for some new storage rooms nearer the priory itself. Now they’d have to wait for the blasted hounds to go first.

‘What is the matter with them?’ Hal asked.

Mark made a snarling noise. There was nothing for them to make all this row about. It was the contrariness of hounds, that was all. If he had his way, the things would be loosed tomorrow and the devil take them. All Mark wanted just this minute was his bed again. The thought of the well-stuffed mattress, the roped frame, the soft pillow filled with hens’ feathers, was all enough to make him scowl and want to kill a man.

There had been other little disturbances as well, of course. A couple of days ago there had been the arrival of the envoys from France on their way to find the King. Prior Henry had been able to direct them to Beaulieu, where he had heard the King had descended. God be praised, the envoys and their assorted train had departed yesterday, Monday.

At the door to the barn, he passed his candle to Hal before struggling with the great bolt. It should have been greased, and he reminded himself again to see to it. The old timbers of the doors had dropped, and the iron bolt was firmly fixed in its slot. He was forced to haul and jiggle it, gradually making it move side-to-side before he had loosened it enough to draw it free, and then he had to pull at the door while trying to lift it at the same time, the ancient timbers scraping across the paved entrance way.

Inside they had fenced off the left-hand side. This was where the hounds were supposed to live, while opposite was being used for hay storage. The two were cautious with their candles in here, for all knew the dangers of lighted candles and hay, and Hal’s wick was already spitting dangerously. Mark made a mental note to trim it in the morning.

The noise was deafening here. Baying and howling, some of the beasts jumping up at the partition, while others prowled, heads low and suspicious.

Mark took up a switch from a peg by the door. He never liked dogs, and certainly wouldn’t trust them. The first time he had been bitten by one was when he was nothing but a youngster, and the experience of seeing that enormous gaping jaw in front of him, smelling that foul breath, and feeling the teeth clench over his puny forearm, was one he would never forget. All he could recall was screaming in a high tone, like a hog feeling the knife open his throat. The memory was enough to make him shudder, and now, as he stood there in the gloom, candle high overhead, switch in his other fist, he was taken with an urge to destroy the lot of them. Just toss his candle into the hay, and all the hounds would soon be gone. Burned to ash, all of them.

Except he couldn’t. The Queen would delight in repaying the priory for such dereliction. And Mark himself would be blamed. He was the man responsible, after all.

So no. He would have to see what the problem was.

Hal had taken hold of a small whip, and flicked it at a dog trying to leap the partition. It fell back, yelping. Another took a cut across its nose, and fled to the rear of the pack, howling — although whether with rage or pain, Mark couldn’t tell.

‘What’s the matter with them?’ Hal demanded, trying to speak over the noise.

‘They’re beasts! Just hounds. They don’t need a reason to make this row. They do it for fun,’ Mark shouted back. God, but it was so tempting to throw his candle down and …

His eyes caught a glitter in the straw even as the enticing thought caught at his imagination. There was something there, he thought, and peered more closely.

‘What is it?’ Hal called, his attention split between the hounds leaping at the screen and his master, who had crossed the floor and stood staring down at the straw. ‘Master?’

He cast a glance at the hounds once more, but then something made him walk over towards his master. ‘Master?’

‘No! Keep back, Hal!’ Mark exclaimed urgently, and tried to stop the lad. But he was too late.

‘Oh, Christ! Oh, God! Gilbert, no! What’s happened to him? Gilbert …’

Mark tried to turn and shield Hal from the scene, but the boy turned and retched against a sack of grain, face white-green, clearly visible even in the warm light from the torches. He had already seen the obscene gaping wound, the pale, yellow cartilage, and the blood that lay all about Gilbert’s body, smearing the hay in foul clots and puddles.

Run! He had to run! The noise of the hounds behind him was swelling all the time, and he had to escape the row. He didn’t think they were after him, but the noise — Christ Jesus ! He had to get away from the town as fast as he could. The castle was a short distance in front now, and he could see its battlements. There were only a few yards to the door, and then he was inside, panting with fear and exertion, feeling his heart pounding, the sweat cooling on his forehead. Or was it the blood? God’s body, but there had been so much blood !

Three men waited just inside. They said nothing. There was nothing to be said, only a nod of mutual recognition, all aware of the great danger they ran. All knew that if their act tonight was discovered, they would certainly perish. Painfully. He gave them the small phial, and that was his part done.

Soon he was bustled out, still no time to rest. A man took him swiftly, all the way from the castle’s outer gate, back into the town, quietly now, the pair of them scurrying like mice through the deserted streets, and out to the little postern. There was no guard here — it was the castle’s men who were supposed to look after this doorway, so close to the castle itself — and then he was outside, in the open, the sky a purple velvet cloth overhead, sprinkled with clouds and shimmering sheets of silken mist. It was a strange sensation, standing there in the open, suddenly still, with no animals, no sense of urgency, no need to run …

Except there was. He would be running for the rest of his life now, unless the plan succeeded.